Special Delivery
by codenamecynic
Summary: Hawke finally works up the nerve to talk to the hot UPS guy who's been delivering packages to the office for weeks (with a little help from Isabela).


A/N: Guys, I am a horrible sucker for AUs, introductions and awkward wooing tactics. Based on the prompt "Hot UPS delivery-person AU" from tumblr user bettydice

* * *

It wasn't fair. It wasn't even a fly-over country on the way _to_ fair. He was just too hot.

Isabela, predictably, was practically convulsing in the workspace across from hers. This was not the first time Hawke had cause to regret Varric's 'artistic vision' for their shared space at _Tethras Weekly_ because it meant that she and Isabela literally shared a space, and the woman had a horrible tendency to pirate all the best K-cups and commandeer social situations, sailing them from rivers of awkward into the deep seas of utter humiliation.

For Hawke, that was, who spent a lot of time on Wednesdays at three o'clock with a blush from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Isabela was impossible to embarrass - convenient, seeing as the bulk of Hawke's poorly updated repertoire of pranks was amassed circa the fifth grade, and _somebody_ at least had to pretend to be an adult or no one would knowingly consent to leaving them alone in the office unsupervised.

"Don't you have a column to write?" Hawke demanded, head definitely not in her hands behind the obscuring bulk of her monitor. It was 2:45 - she had approximately fifteen minutes to pull it together before _he_ showed up and her tongue spontaneously transformed into a macramé plant holder.

Isabela waved a hand, gold rings each individually purchased by someone else's platinum credit card glinting off her perfectly tanned fingers. Next to her, Hawke was the pasty white color of a person who worked in an office by day and secretly played first-person-shooters alone in her apartment for fun by night, because yelling into a headset for four hours while shooting pixels at other pixels definitely counted as quality social interaction. Happy hour was, after all, completely overrated.

"Already done."

"What are you, a cylon? I _just_ sent you the topic for the week, how is that even possible."

If Isabela's expression was any more smug, it would be a cat. "I'm using one of Aveline's questions."

"Oh Jesus, from the pre-Donnic era? She's going to kill you."

"She can't - unless, of course, she wants to claim all those letters from 'Marigold' as hers. Some of them were on just this side of desperation."

"Trust me, I remember." There was not enough vodka in the world to kill the brain cells where those sparkling gems were stored. "I still can't believe she actually asked you for dating advice."

Isabela sighed dramatically. "I know, it's awful. To be the only one not afraid of a little human contact-"

"Hey. I'm not afraid. I'm not. He's just... really attractive."

"He's the UPS guy."

"Yeah, the really fucking attractive UPS guy, who is really fucking attractive."

"Do go on."

"Stop purring at me, we've been through this a million times."

"Honestly I'm still just surprised. I wouldn't have pegged you as a 'tattooed, bad boy' kind of girl."

Hawke wrinkled her nose, feeling the tips of her ears go pink and rummaged around aimlessly in her messy desk drawers in protest. "He works for UPS, how bad can he be."

"Good to know your litmus test of character is a timely delivery service."

"Look, sometimes a girl just needs to get a package."

Both Isabela's eyebrows rose pointedly.

"God I hate you."

"No you don't. You're just projecting your insecurity because I'm pushing you to step outside your comfort zone."

"My insec- I'm not- Don't you dare 'Agony Aunt' me, Isabela, I edit your columns."

Isabela's look was serene. "Then you should have all the tools you need." 

* * *

_Tools my ass_ , Hawke thought, shaking her head over the faintly wilted potted plant sitting on the window in the lobby. Merrill had confiscated it from Anders' office, convinced that the political podcasts he insisted on listening to at one decibel below deafening was causing the little brown spots appearing on the leaves. Hawke peered at them, expecting them to spell out some kind of S.O.S. There was one that mildly resembled Dick Cheney's face, if she squinted.

"How to tell if your house plant votes Republican," she pitched to herself out loud. "More at 5."

"I'm sorry?"

"Holy shit." He was half inside the door and she hadn't heard him come in. "I mean, hi."

"Hello." Was he smiling? No. Yes. Maybe. Yes he _was_ definitely smiling, a bemused sort of look that made one side of his mouth quirk upward faintly, immediately convincing her that he was the kind of person who would appreciate sarcasm.

Right, now she was writing his life story based on the way his mouth - did mouth things. With smiling, and - _right, focus, get it together Hawke, stop looking at his mouth._

It was a nice mouth though.

Anyway.

Jesus.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't. I mean, I was expecting you. Every Wednesday at three, haha." What the - in what world did people laugh like they were reading words out of a book, with distinct syllables and everything? She could feel herself start to turn red and hurriedly cleared her throat. "Sorry, did you have something for me?"

His eyes - his incredibly sexy green eyes, by the way, not that anyone was noticing - narrowed faintly when she abruptly changed the subject, before glancing down at his clipboard. "Yes, I have a package for you."

 _Hawke, no._

"Oh. Is it a big one?"

 _Why would you even say that?_

He almost - _almost_ \- smiled again, she could have sworn she saw it. "No bigger than usual."

"Oh. That's good then."

 _Just stop, please, god, just quit while you're ahead._ As though in some universe this could be even tangentially classified as _ahead_. Somewhere Isabela was rolling in her grave, which was an extra incredible feat given that she was still quite alive and in the next room, ready to mock Hawke for the next seven hundred years.

She could see it now. Herself a spinster at 30, home alone eating Hagen Daas and watching romantic comedies with her dog until she was inevitably buried beneath piles of Hot Pocket wrappers and died under the crushing weight of her social ineptitude.

He pulled the package off his dolly and, like every week, set it on the edge of Merrill's desk, handing her the clipboard to sign. She did, sort of, managing at least to stutter out some semblance of her name in what she was reasonably sure was the right spot, and tried not to focus too much on the black scrawl of tattoos that crept down his arms from beneath the sleeves of his uniform button up and across his extremely well-defined forearms.

Because she had a thing for forearms now. And calves. And slightly over-long black hair that swept down over the forehead slightly, and the sort of bronzed skin that looked like it just stepped off the beach in Ibiza (like she'd ever been to Ibiza), and- Wow, this was some sort of new low for her honestly, the floor and the mire of sad singlehood beneath it was going to open up and swallow her any second.

At least she managed to give him back his pen.

He was still looking at her oddly, his head canted slightly downward so he was looking almost up at her through his ridiculously long eyelashes from beneath those perfect thick brows and - _Was the air conditioner working? Was it hot in here?_ \- all she could do was laugh a little, the normal way this time, and shrug herself into a mental volcano.

"Are you well?"

"What?"

He had paused mid-movement, pen halfway into the pocket of his shirt. "You seem a little flushed."

Scratch the volcano. She was going to shoot herself out of a cannon and into the sun.

"Yeah, I'm just-" _Take a breath, Hawke._ She did, and managed a smile that was almost normal by human standards. "Sorry, just one of those days."

"Ah. Well I hope your afternoon improves."

"Oh, after some chocolate and a lie-down, I'm sure it will." And she hadn't meant to say that out loud. This was going even better than it usually did, where she managed to answer things like 'What's up?'with things like 'Fine'.

He was laughing, though. It was a brief sound that seemed as startling to him as it was to her, but it did definitely happen. "That sounds nice."

"I'm happy to share."

"The nap or the chocolate?"

"Well the couch is a little small."

"That's a pity."

That pulled both of them up short, staring at one another in surprise over a clipboard and a cart of boxes. She was the first to smile, a sound annoyingly like a giggle escaping her mouth, and he let her hear that rusty chuckle one more time, looking down even as he drew himself up, as though physically reining himself in.

Too bad, really.

"I'm sorry." _More than you could possibly know._ "You've been making deliveries here for weeks, and I keep meaning to ask your name. I'm Hawke. Er, well-"

"Marian," he filled in, and took her proffered hand. It was on the window, of course he'd know. "Fenris."

He had the warmest, strongest hands she'd ever felt, nails clean and trimmed but palms faintly rough with calluses.

Somewhere Isabela was sacrificing a box of wine to the god of awkward wooing tactics.

"It's really nice to meet you, Fenris. Properly, I mean."

"You as well. Next Wednesday?"

"Next Wednesday," she confirmed with much more authority than she felt, clasping one hand with the other when he finally let it go and reminding herself that it would be a really stupid Scarlet O'Hara thing to do if she swooned.

"Then I'll look forward to it. See you then... Hawke."

The sound of her name on his tongue, in that deep voice of his - there was only so much a girl could be expected to bear. When the door clicked shut behind him, she lie down on the floor to the sound of Isabela slow clapping in the next room.


End file.
